


The Habit Of Hiding

by ComplicatedLight



Series: By The Stars, Illuminated [1]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 05:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3279353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If James is scrupulously honest with himself, it’s almost as if he <em>wants</em> Lewis to see how it is for him. For Lewis to see <em>him</em>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Habit Of Hiding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Barcardivodka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/gifts).



> Thanks to divingforstones for quick and fabulous beta services! I've tinkered post-beta, and of course all mistakes are mine.
> 
> The story is set pre series 7.

“This is the third Thursday since New Year you’ve wanted to get away on time. Something going on?”

James busies himself with the papers on his desk and tries to pretend he hasn’t heard; not that that’ll put Lewis off.

“Well, I know it’s not band practice—that’s every other Tuesday.” 

_Here we go._ James drops his pen onto his desk and slouches a little in his chair. He knows Lewis won’t let it go, and that he’ll probably work it out, eventually. But James doesn’t intend to help him. 

Lewis carries on as if they’re having a conversation, ignoring the fact that James hasn’t said a word in response to his question. “If you’re seeing someone,”—they both know how unlikely that is, but it does amuse James that Lewis raises it as a possibility, just to ‘exclude it from his enquiry’—“If you _are_ seeing someone, I can’t imagine you’re on a strict schedule of one date a week, always early on a Thursday evening. Seems a bit orderly, even for you.”

James looks at him blandly; conveying a total lack of interest in the subject. The well-practiced expression on his face—blank, bored, and just slightly disdainful—has proved very effective over the years, when inquisitive people have been attempting to extract personal information from him. Lewis, of course, is immune. 

“So what does that leave us? Regular appointment of some sort? Getting your nails done; personal trainer; . . . masseuse?!”

James is entertained, despite himself. “No, no, and definitely—no.”

“Voluntary work of some sort?”

James shakes his head.

“Something to do with the church?”

Another shake.

Lewis goes quiet, seemingly stumped for a moment. But then he grins triumphantly. “Oh! Night school. You started a class at the beginning of the new term.”

James sighs. _Bingo._ “Very good, sir.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? Nothing to be embarrassed abou . . .” Lewis grinds to a halt mid-word. “Oh, well, that would depend on what the class is, wouldn’t it?” He puts on his serious thinking expression. “Hmm. Beginner’s hairdressing?” 

James’ traitorous face smirks, entirely against his will. “No.”

“Advanced hairdressing, building on your previous studies?”

“No!”

“Pole dancing?!”

_Oh, for God’s sake._ “Haven’t you got work to do, sir?”

“Don’t give me that look! That’s a real class, that is. Apparently you have to be very fit to pole dance!” The colour’s rising in Lewis’ cheeks a bit. “So I’ve read.”

“You seem to know a lot about it, Inspector.” 

Lewis grins. “We’re not talking about my class; we’re talking about yours.”

“I think you’ll find I haven’t talked about my class at all.” It comes out sharper than he’d intended.

Lewis shoots him a look and holds his hands up. “All right! You’re right. None of my business.” His look says he’s surprised, but there’s a hurt edge to his voice too. Lewis opens the file in front of him and makes a show of starting to read the contents. _Oh—well done, James._

The fact that Lewis has stopped digging should feel good—but of course it doesn’t. James feels guilty for snapping at him. Lewis was just trying to have a bit of fun—and God knows they need some of _that_ in this job. But it’s not even just the guilt. Now that he’s got Lewis to back off, why does James feel like he’s lost something? Why does he wish Lewis was still pushing; still interested? And it’s only a bloody night school class. Why does he have to be so bloody secretive all the time, anyway? He doesn’t even want to be, anymore. Well, not with Lewis.

He takes in a sharp breath. “Astronomy.”

“What?”

“Astronomy. Stars. The forget-me-nots of the angels.”

Lewis looks up from his file, frowning; puzzled. “I know what astronomy is, for heaven’s sake. What I don’t get is why you’d think you needed to keep it to yourself.”

_Good question._ “I don’t really know either, sir. Just habit, I expect.” 

“Habit?” Lewis is still frowning. 

“Habit: a regular practice, developed over time, that’s difficult to give up.”

“ _James._ ”

“Sorry, sir.”

The lines of Lewis’ frown deepen across his forehead. “I know I take the mickey sometimes, but you do know I’m only joking? I’m glad you’re doing something new.” 

_Why does he have to be so bloody nice?_ “I know. It isn’t that.”

“What then?”

It’s excruciating, but he feels he owes Lewis some sort of explanation. No, that’s not quite it. If he’s scrupulously honest with himself, it’s almost as if he _wants_ Lewis to see how it is for him. For Lewis to see _him_. Which is always an odd thing when he experiences it. Odd because usually, with pretty much everyone other than Lewis, the young boy James—still tucked away inside him and anxiously keeping watch for any possibility of hurt or slight or rejection—well usually, the boy James would be urging him to keep his mouth shut or to steer the subject into less revealing territory. But this young boy James—a clever, skinny, sliver of a boy; the heart-bruised author of the Hathaway motto: Semper solus, sed semper tutum: _Always alone, but always safe_ —this young James actually likes Lewis; trusts him as much as he trusts anyone. So things don’t always go as they would with anyone other than Lewis. 

“I imagine”—James casts around for a way to explain—“people get out of the habit of sharing information, when there are few opportunities to do so.” He watches Lewis take that in. It’s a cliché, but he can practically see the cogs whirring. Next will come the hypothesis testing, he’s sure.

“You mean being single?”

“Certainly that.”

Lewis nods; pauses; looks at him. “And I don’t suppose seminaries necessarily encourage blokes to share their innermost feelings and enthusiasms. Well, other than the God-related stuff.” 

James huffs out a breath. No, sir. I don’t suppose they do.”

“Nor posh boarding schools.”

“As you say.”

There’s a hint of a smile on Lewis’ face now. “Whereas comprehensive schools on Tyneside in the ‘70s were all about the warm, cosy sharing, as I’m sure you’ll have concluded from me open, sunny personality.”

“Yes, I have wondered about the roots of your enviable temperament, Inspector. ” 

Lewis chuckles. “I bet you have.” He waits a few seconds more, presumably to see if any more revelations will be forthcoming, then drops his gaze back down to the paperwork on his desk and starts working again. So James follows suit, skimming through the first couple of pages of the ballistics report he’s reading. But apparently they’re not finished.

“You enjoying it then? The class?”

James glances across. Lewis is casually flicking through a file. “Yes. I am. Very much so.” He could leave it there, but he finds he wants to tell Lewis. “We went out to Wytham Woods last week. The sky was absolutely clear. We could see the Milky Way; the _via lactea_. Four hundred billion stars. I don’t even know what a billion is, exactly—but it was so clear, looked so close, I thought I could see every one of those stars. I wanted to lie on my back in that clearing and spend the whole night just looking.” For a moment he’s back there, in the dark, chilly woods, dazed by the immeasurable beauty of the heavens. When he shakes himself, Lewis is looking steadily at him. 

“Good.” Lewis smiles briefly then turns back to his work, painstakingly typing something into a document on his computer, using his two index fingers; something that always makes James feel fond, almost protective, towards his boss. James makes another attempt at the ballistics report in front of him and they sit in productive silence for a few minutes. 

“ _Did_ you spend all night lying in the clearing?”

Lewis sounds genuinely interested. He doesn’t seem to think the idea of lying for hours in a damp, cold wood is particularly strange. How can James have experienced this lack of judgement from Lewis so many times, and still be surprised by it? Still be moved by it? “Afraid not. I was with the rest of the class. We spent about an hour there, mostly discussing the various visible features of the galaxy. Then we all got back in the minibus and came back to Oxford, via a Little Chef. Apparently there’s something about being confronted by the majesty of the universe that makes people want to eat chips.”

“Yes. I heard a programme about that on Radio 4 once. It’s a well known phenomenon.” They smirk at each other. “Maybe you could show me, sometime?”

“What? The Little Chef?”

“No! _Jesus_ , James. The Milky bloody Way.” 

“You want me to take you out to Wytham Woods and show you the Milky Way?”

“If you like. I’ve never seen it; not clearly like that. You could tell me all about it.”

“It’s cold out there, this time of year.”

“We could take a blanket; a flask of something. Pop into the Little Chef on the way back . . .”

How does Lewis manage this? How does he make things—warm, human things—possible? Even the young boy James—that fretful avoider of attachments and all things sociable—would follow him to the ends of the earth.

“Well, I know how fond you are of chips, sir.”

“I don’t deny it, Sergeant.”

“I could look to see what the weather forecast is for Saturday night. See if it’s going to be clear.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

And with that, they both turn their attention back to their paperwork again. James takes surreptitious looks at Lewis, wondering what he’s thinking. Perhaps he’s pleased with himself, for drawing his overly reserved sergeant out of himself? Perhaps he’s looking forward to getting out into the woods at the weekend and seeing some stars? Who knows? What James knows is that he’s feeling warm, content, proud of himself, even, for taking a risk—which of course, once recognised, immediately necessitates a choice selection of self-mocking thoughts. But he finds his heart isn’t in it. He just can’t summon up the necessary self-loathing to really go to town. 

If he’s not careful, he’s in danger of actually being happy. 

He goes back to the report once again, determined to get to the end this time. He turns the pages with his left hand. With his right, he doodles drifts of stars on a scrap of paper, as he reads.

**Author's Note:**

> James' description of stars as "the forget-me-nots of the angels" is from Evangeline by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
> 
> Many apologies to any readers with a working knowledge of Latin - I have Google Translate to thank for my stab at James' motto!


End file.
